Milkrun (30 page)

He shrugs.

“I think I'm going to go,” I say and walk to the door. “I guess I'll be speaking to you in about a year, then.” I hate this. I hate him. Now I have to look for a roommate. Now I have to look for a boyfriend.

“Jackie, wait. I don't want you to leave angry. For now, we can at least be friends.”

“More friends I don't need.” This has been the worst week ever. But I'm not going to cry. I haven't cried since NewYork. “Goodbye.” I leave the apartment, slamming the door behind me.

 

I don't feel like talking much when I get home. I sit on the couch and turn on the TV. Maybe I'll never talk again. Maybe I'll become some sort of huge freak, and news stations will camp outside the apartment. The entire country will wonder what's wrong with me. Andrew will see me on TV and feel terrible for making me be by myself, and Sam will feel too bad to move out.

“Are you okay?” Sam asks.

I nod.

“Are you sure?”

I nod again.

I hate my life. I really do. And I have to go back to work tomorrow, where once again the focal point of my existence lies in the placement of semicolons. What's the point of them, anyway? Why can't sentences blend together into one long, convoluted unpunctuated idea, just like my pathetic life?

“I'm going to Marc's,” Sam tells me. “I'll be back tomorrow.”

I nod. What does it matter anyway?

Twenty minutes later I hear her key on the lock again. She's back. What did she forget? The handcuffs?

“I changed my mind. I went to the store and bought cookie dough ice cream, facial masks, and a pedicure set. Wanna have a makeover?”

I burst into tears.

“I think he's full of shit,” she says fifteen minutes later from under a mud-drenched face. “What guy tells a girl she needs time to be alone? It's too bad—I thought he might take over my lease.”

“What kind of person has a crazy idea like that?”

“One with an overzealous imagination. So what do you want to do about the apartment?”

“I don't know.”

“Maybe Natalie will want to move in.”

Could I live with Nat? She's been dropping hints lately. I think she's getting tired of living at home. “I guess. Maybe.” As long as she leaves her calorie-counter in Beacon Hill.

After
Law and Order
(Sam's no longer addicted to
Beautiful Bride
), I call Wendy from bed.

“So come with me.”

“I can't just come.”

“Why not?”

Good question. “Well first of all, I can't afford it.”

“You have no money put away?”

Hmm. “I have my therapy money. But it's supposed to go toward a CD player for my car.”

“You don't have any CDs!”

“Yes I do! I've bought a couple since the robbery.”

“How many?”

“Two. But I was planning to buy more with whatever I have left after I buy the player.”

“You can buy a first-class ticket with the money you've been swindling! I'll talk you through buying it over the Net.”

“There's more to buy than just the ticket. I have to eat in Europe. Baguettes don't grow on trees. And what about hotels?”

“We'll stay in youth hostels. We'll camp out on the highways. We'll wait tables. We'll sell costume jewelry in Hyde Park.”

“You're an investment banker! What investment banker quits her job to sell costume jewelry?”

“I'll lend you the money. I made an absurd bonus last year.”

“I can't borrow money from you.” My mind is whirling. I also got a small bonus for Christmas. Small but not entirely insignificant.

“So you won't borrow money from me. But you'll come? Say you'll come.”

Can I really do this? Just take off? “You're leaving February first. That's too early for me. Sam won't mind—she can move into Marc's place, but we have to give the landlord two months' notice.”

“So meet me in March. I'll tour a bit alone first. Where do you want to go?”

“Paris. And then the south of France. And then Italy. I want to take one of those leaning pictures in Pisa.”

“So you're in?”

“Maybe. Yes. I think. Okay.”

Why should I hang around here? I don't have a boyfriend, I soon won't have a roommate, and I'm stuck in a dead-end job.

Iris is going to kill me.

 

When I walk into work the next morning, I notice red balloons tied all around Helen's cubicle along with a big red banner that says, “Congratulations!”

What's going on? Did her dissertation get nominated for a Pulitzer? I will not gratify her by asking what has occurred.

I hate this office. I hate this grammar-obsessed world. I am going to resign immediately. I head toward Shauna's desk. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“Sure,” she says. “What's up?”

“I…” Suddenly a chorus of “For she's a jolly good fellow” interrupts my announcement. I can't take not knowing anymore. “What's going on?”

“Oh, didn't you hear?” Obviously not or I wouldn't be asking.

“We're publishing Helen's book!”

“What book?”

“Helen wrote a romance novel for
Love and Lust
and we're going to publish it!”

Helen wrote a novel? “When did Helen write a novel?”

“A couple of months ago.”

“What's it called?”

“
The Millionaire Takes a Bride.
I guess it's about a millionaire who gets married.”

Brilliant deduction, Shauna.

Wait a second. I edited
The Millionaire Takes a Bride.
There were sex scenes in it. Helen wrote sex scenes? Helen's had sex?

I storm over to Helen's desk.

“You wrote
The Millionaire Takes a Bride
?”

“Oh, good, Jackie, I'm glad you're here because—”

“Why didn't you tell me? I edited it for you!”

“I didn't want you to know it was mine. I wanted you to remain objective.”

“But why did you ask for
my
help, since this was a personal project? Julie has a lot more experience.” And you know I can't stand you, you comma-crazy coworker.

Helen thinks about this for a second. “I wanted it to be polished, but not too polished.”

“Gee, thanks.” Bitch.

“Your editorial comments have been far more valuable to me than your copyediting.”

I soften a bit. “Really?”

“I'm serious. I could never have published the book without your help. Thank you.”

How was I tricked into involuntarily helping Helen fulfill her dreams? “You're welcome. And congratulations.”

“Actually, there's more. I'm quitting my job to pursue writing full-time.”

What? No more Helen? Yay! I'd be dancing for joy if I wasn't off to Europe anyway.

“And I'm going to recommend you for my position. I know how much you appreciate commas and punctuation, but you have an excellent eye for substantive editing. And my recommendation carries a lot of weight.”

I stare at her openmouthed. Has the world gone mad? Helen is a romance writer? Helen is recommending me for her job? What do I do? What about Europe? If I take this job, I may never again have the opportunity to find myself. I could remain lost forever. People will stop me in the street and ask, “How are you?” and I'll answer, “How should I know how I am when I don't even know where I am? Can't you see I'm lost?”

I thank her and bury myself in my cubicle. I desperately need to speak to someone about this, and while Wendy normally receives all my crisis-related phone calls, I have a feeling her opinion might be slightly biased.

I call Janie. Thank God she's home.

“What do I do?” I ask her.

“When I was about to graduate, my philosophy professor asked me what I was planning to do with my life. I told him I was getting married. He said I was too young, that I should go to Europe instead and find a lover.”

“So…you're saying I should go?”

“I'm saying you're only young once. How often can you just pick up and take off?”

Hmm. According to you, all the time. “But what about Iris? She's supposed to stay with me this summer.”

“You let me worry about Iris. Right now, you have to do what's best for you. Europe! How exciting!”

Something tells me that once I leave Boston, I'm never coming back. Not to live, anyway. Am I ready to leave Boston for good? I'll probably end up in New York. On the other hand, if I stay here, I will be in constant fear of running into Jeremy or Andrew. And what about a roommate? Do I want to spend the next year counting calories in a flowery spiraled notebook?

“I have a good feeling about this,” Janie says. Janie has a thing about her “good feelings.” She claims to have limited psychic powers. Maybe that's why I inherited only limited insight. “Maybe we should move to London, too,” she says.

I call my dad and he pretty much says what I expect him to say, that running off to Europe would be irresponsible. “You're acting like your mother,” he says. “Unable to see anything through.” I'm not sure if he's referring to my half-completed master's degree or to their marriage. Am I really like that? Am I a quitter? I tell him I have to go.

What do I do? I need guidance. I need help. I need answers…I need a
real
psychic. Now there's an idea. Jo-Jo! I need Jo-Jo, world-renowned psychic and cosmetician (she also sidelines in hair replacement and acrylic nails). How can I call Jo-Jo? I look around the office for the newspaper. Where is Jo-Jo? Her hotline has mysteriously disappeared from the classifieds. But look—this one looks just as good. “P.P. I.A. Professional Psychic International Association—As Seen On TV!” Hmm. Unlike their competitors, these psychics are certified by an independent review board. That's encouraging. And the ad promises that their psychics will answer all my questions. “About love. About money. About destiny. And the first two minutes are Absolutely Free (followed by a charge of only 5.99 per minute, minimum 1 minute)!”

I dial the 900 number. I
so
can't charge this to work. Luckily, I have a credit card. My newly replaced credit card. I'm most definitely going to regret this at the end of the month.

“Welcome to the National Association of Professional Psychics,” says a syrupy recorded woman's voice. “The certified psychic hotline. You must be over eighteen to continue. At the tone your first free two minutes will begin.”

Beep. I set the timer on my digital clock.

“Hello…If…you…know…the…extension…of…the…psychic…you…wish…to…speak…to…please…type…in…the…extension…number…now.”

Shouldn't they know the extension I want?

Lengthy pause. “Otherwise…please…hold.”

Pause. Ring. Ring. Ring.

Finally, I meet Lewis.

“Hello,” says Lewis with a Southern drawl. Not what I expected, but who am I to question the paranormal? “What is your name and birthday?” Hey! Shouldn't he know this, too?

I tell him anyway, and wait for the unraveling of my future.

“You are a generous person by nature,” he says, sounding as if he's reading from a computer screen. “You would give the shirt off your back to someone in need. You will have romance and security. You love young children. The coming week will be very good. You will have good news.”

“Sorry?” I interrupt. I'm trying to be sly and test to see if he's just a recording. “I didn't hear that. Can you repeat that?”

He ignores me and continues. “You have excellent communication with someone in your life.” Obviously not you, Lewis. “Within thirty days, all your problems will be solved. You will do some traveling. Possibly you will move. Maybe to another city. Maybe to another state. You may not actually move, or may not have the opportunity to move, but if you do, your life will be enriched.”

What are you talking about, Lewis?

“Your life is at a crossroad.”

Very true. Good job, Lewis!

“Something will happen concerning transportation.”

An airplane? Will I be getting on an airplane?

“A new car is coming into your life.” A new car? Will it have a CD player? Who does he think he is—a game-show host?

“What kind of car?” I ask.

“You will be happy with your new car. March first is your lucky day. Any time within eighty days of this date, before or later, you might receive good news.” That means anytime from now 'til June.